


You Matter to Me

by viajeramyra



Series: The 4x08 Fix-It [2]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Eskimo Kisses, Fix-It, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Sleepy Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26136220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viajeramyra/pseuds/viajeramyra
Summary: Despite his nature to rely on impulse, he had mastered use of that virtue when required of him. Now, his eyes rolled from side to side, keeping beat with the second hand moving around in ceaseless counter circles. According to Martín’s calendar on the wall, three weeks was all it had took for Andrés to lose his mind.==The much requested sequel to “Give Me a Second Light”
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: The 4x08 Fix-It [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897636
Comments: 12
Kudos: 68





	You Matter to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maleclipse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maleclipse/gifts).



> So this was inspired fully by my dear Lina’s fan art, and I was lucky enough to be given permission to write out my idea. Check out her works and her art! <3

Each ticking second on the clock made him want to smother his face with one of the discarded pillows currently collecting dust on the floor. The annoying little thing was his only companion, though, and it seemed a pity to send it smashing to the floor from irritation. Patience was a crucial element to being a successful artist, and his line of work had always demanded it in ample amounts. Despite his nature to rely on impulse, he had mastered use of that virtue when required of him. Now, his eyes rolled from side to side, keeping beat with the second hand moving around in ceaseless counter circles. According to Martín’s calendar on the wall, three weeks was all it had took for Andrés to lose his mind. 

For three weeks, he’d been unable to leave the house for more than a few minutes at a time. They were secluded enough now that whipping winds chilled Palermo, the colder impending winter driving out most of their neighbors. But, his face was still front and center of most new channels, at least on the nightly segments. Unlike the rest of his surviving comrades, he was sentenced to life inside damp four walls, unable to enjoy or even access the riches they’d obtained. When he abandoned his brother for Italy, their plans for utilizing the funds had yet to be finalized. He’d taken what little he needed to get by, and a small cushion had Martín rightly thrown him out of his home. It wasn’t enough to consider rolling around in riches, to plot a new escape and run for the freedoms Southeast Asia teased. 

His bones were quickly hardening like concrete, the lack of use soon to become permanent. Whispers tickled his ears, his fingers itching at his sides. It’d be easy to find a new _project_ to keep occupied. With few tourists visiting the island, it would be harder to blend in—the perfect combination of challenge and thrill. His heart sang at the idea, rusted wheels already turning in his brain. Somewhere in this apartment, there would be a map he could use to plot and plan. His smile twisted with the quickened pulses against his chest, anticipation ready to throw him from the bed. 

Instead, he rolled over to his stomach, face sinking into the mattress. He’d never compromise Martín for a cheap thrill. 

Beautiful, loving, forgiving Martín, who had generously allowed him entrance in the first place. Perhaps the endless sunshine of Palawan was ever the temptress, compared to the changing seasons Palermo provided. But this bed, this home, where he’d been allowed to make a place for himself against the odds was far more valuable. The nights together were worth the days apart, his genius engineer required to _actually work_ to maintain any semblance of a life on the island. While his intelligent lover worked the day away, he spent most of his time cooking and cleaning. The tasks weren’t the worst, despite their usually demeaning connotation. He knew he couldn’t leave it all for Martín, who had his own jobs that left him exhausted by the end of the day. He might have had stronger complaints bubbling inside him, but he squished them down where they couldn’t escape. The moment he’d climbed down the ladder of the boat, his sentence was delivered. He was here for Martín and would never leave him again. He could play _housewife_ if it meant keeping Martín. 

All the same, he released another heavy groan into the mattress. A few flecks of stuffing popped up, itching his skin. He ignored the frustrating sensation, thankful to be graced by something new. Different ideas had played around in his mind, ways to waste the day away while Martín was called out to help with the restoration of one of the nearby cathedrals. 

When he’d first heard of the task, something pitiful growled in the bottom of his stomach. This morning, after nearly four days of work, envy colored the room green. His arms had tightened around Martín’s waist, distracting kisses across the expenses of skin keeping him pinned in bed. The sun was already cracking through the shutters by the time Martín had finally won his freedom. Try as he might to change his mind, they’d untangled from each other and the comfort of their bed. His grumbled complaints had knotted in his throat, demanding release. In the end, he’d only sat upright on their bed, arms folded over his bare chest as he watched Martín get dressed. 

“Is there a problem, Andrés?” He’d asked, ever attentive of his surroundings. 

Andrés had wanted to lie, to assure there was nothing wrong with being robbed of this opportunity. His skill set was perfectly tailored to this task, where Martín would work on the sidelines. He could be at the helm, overseeing each ornate detail and every minor imperfection. They’d done well together rebuilding the monastery, as a wonderful team. He missed the way his heart _fluttered_ when he complimented Martín for a job well done and received a pale pink blush in return. Back then, it was an opportunity to get closer to the addictive man. Lines blurred when they worked together, the bright sparks flying between them. Maybe if he hadn’t been a coward back then, he wouldn’t be locked inside the house now. 

“Not a single problem in the world,” he had quickly reassured, as he’d reached out and grabbed Martín’s wrist. The last of his navy blue buttons remained undone, the dark curls of chest hairs still exposed to his view. His eyes traced the puff of Martín’s lips, still swollen from the kisses he’d spent the morning stealing. The red flush growing on Martín’s cheeks spoke to the self-satisfied smirk Andrés knew he wore. 

In return, Martín’s free hand had flirted with his messy hair, still hesitant. Andrés tried not to fault him for the mornings he still felt uncertainty creeping up. It hadn’t yet been a month since their reunion, and seven months apart had been hard on them both. Piecing the damaged parts of Martín back together again required daily love and attention to maintain the adhesive. He’d vowed to do whatever it took to show his dedication and he meant it. He turned the hand he held over, and dragged it slowly to his lips. He adorned Martín’s knuckles with phantom kisses, each a silent promise. _I will never leave you again. All I am is yours. You are all I ever wanted. We belong together. Te amo, Martín._

The man’s thumb had roamed across the top of his right eyebrow, and Andrés’ eyelids fluttered from the tender touch. Yes, there was still hurt here. However, there was also their delicate, marvelous bond, glowing brighter each day. 

His eyes were dazy when he opened them again, Martín’s forehead rested against his. He had inhaled, and the strong scent of cedarwood and leather had flared all of his senses. It twirled down with every nerve, and his heart thumped in his chest and the simple call. The beats carried the precious name of his lover, all encompassing as it always should’ve been. “Martín,” he’d whispered, and his hands had cupped the man’s face. “Come back to bed.” 

That damned addictive laugh had shook Martín’s shoulders as he pulled back, a sweet smile on his face. Andrés had leaned forward, had tried to chase after the wondrous kisses he was hooked on. Instead his lips were scratched by the coarse stubble on Martín’s cheeks, and he had pulled away in a pout. “One of us has to put food on the table, as you so delicately pointed out.” 

He had tried to fight the way his face wanted to twist, as though he’d just bit into a tart lemon. He hadn’t been fast enough, and something alerted the ever aware Martín once more. He took a step back from their playful embrace, eyebrows arched with distrust. “You can’t leave the house, Andrés. You know that. I...there are only so many jobs to take in November.” 

“I know I can’t leave, Martín. But it doesn’t change that there is little purpose for me here.” 

The dull emptiness had flashed again in Martín’s eyes, the cerulean darkening with hues of grey. He’d chosen his words poorly, but it wasn’t as though he could go back and swallow his tongue. Martín deserved some semblance of the truth, he knew; even though it wasn’t _him_ Andrés had grown bored of. Of course, that was the conclusion his lover’s mind immediately jumped to though. The hand he held had pulled away from him, a sudden chill where the playful warmth once resided. 

“There’s _little_ purpose for you here?” 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” 

“I understand being under ‘house arrest’,” Martín had started, and Andrés had dug his fingers into the mattress to avoid rolling his eyes at the air quotes, “wasn’t what you had in mind after the Mint heist. But, half of Europe is still looking for you.” 

“You think I don’t know that?” 

“I don’t know what I think. I didn’t realize you’d grown so unhappy with your situation.” 

“Being locked in a shack...me volvió loco. You’re projecting an insecurity where there shouldn’t be one.” 

The vein twitching in Martín’s forehead had warned him of the violent winds brewing inside his lover, the storm of his jaded pain whipping around dangerously. Andrés had known defusing the trigger was the better option—but the selfish part of him demanded to know if anything he’d done in recent weeks had mended any part of their relationship. When dark blue eyes narrowed, and Martín’s lip twitched, it was too late to dial back to their happiness anyway. 

“Where there shouldn’t be one?! _Tomátela!_ ” 

“Martín, I have worked to prove there is nowhere else I’d rather be. But you know me. My hands need to be constantly busy. This isn’t about you.” 

“But if you hadn’t come back for me, you wouldn’t be in hiding. Both things can be true.” 

“Both things could be true, but that doesn’t mean they are,” Andrés had insisted as he shook his head. “Have I not tried to make things right?” 

“Of course you have, Andrés. You gave up life on a beach to be trapped in a room with no one else for company,” he’d replied while shoving his foot into his rigid boots, the knotted shoelaces making the task near impossible. He’d snarled, a clear sign of his frustration as he continued to move around the room. 

“You _know_ I’d always pick you, if given the choice again.” 

“So you’ve said,” he snapped in return. Even under the thick wool coat, Andrés had seen the way Martín’s shoulders tensed, head bowed. If he had just reached for Martín, if he had just been fast enough to lock the man in his arms, the sinking feeling would’ve stopped. Instead, he’d ran his hand down his face, annoyed. The defeating silence spoke more than all of his unstable promises, revealing just how undeserving he still was. Martín’s hand had fidgeted with the door, as though waiting for an unshakeable display of affection, of faithful action to add meaning to words. 

Ever too late, he’d only asked, “Are we really going to continue arguing about this?” 

“No, we aren’t. I’ll see you this evening.” 

Their room had shook with the force he’d used to slam the door behind him. It’d rattled him just as much, as he only watched Martín go. 

So here Andrés had sat, despite the call to give into artistic instinct. With nothing but their argument to keep him company, Andrés couldn’t shake the look in Martín’s eye. What little happiness he’d fought for dimmed, the heavy bags not quite gone from his face. Relentless demons surrounded Martín before he left, the same ones Andrés had battled since his arrival. He pinched the bridge of his nose, apologetic words coming too late. They’d fallen into old patterns, far too easily done after ten years of the same routine. Their foundation was built upon it, but that wasn’t good enough anymore. He’d uprooted their lives with their goodbye, the one he told himself again and again he’d wanted. At the time, the feebile lies were all he could cling to. He didn’t have access to a phone inside the Mint, each time he only wanted to call and beg forgiveness. Now, he had the chance to actually make amends, and he was only walking down the same roads that broke them in the first place. 

The first week, every effort was made by him for Martín’s behalf. He slowly initiated every contact, he carefully approached his precious friend, and he didn’t take more than deserved. He sat up on the bed, shoulders hunched forward. His fingers nimbly rubbed the corners of his temples, a heavy breath expanding his chest. The truth was he’d simply stopped working as hard as he should. Martín deserved the unwavering devotion he’d given, and Andrés’ efforts were mediocre at best. His first concern always fell back to himself and the concrete walls separating the two of them. When he’d come crawling to Palermo, his actions had hammered away to chip a hole in his defenses. Martín still awaited on the other side, putting in the effort Andrés knew was his duty. 

He rose quickly from the bed with new determination. He wasn’t meant to be a passive player in their relationship. Being blessed to keep Martín wouldn’t allow for less than his humble willingness to fight for them. His passion for life and refined talents could be utilized to adore the man he loved. The lightbulb popped above his head, the idea illuminating the dark room. Yes, a hint of risk was worth pursuing, if it meant cherishing Martín the way he deserved. 

The skies outside were overcast, but he blinked, tears pricking the corners of his eyes at the contrast. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over his eyelids until he could finally focus again. Even with the lights turned on in their apartment, the place was never well lit. Martín had tried tinkering with the electricity, in hopes their place would be bright enough for Andrés to paint. It’d helped, but Martín’s hearty laugh when he took one of the canvases outside spoke to how it still wasn’t enough. The most daylight Andrés got to enjoy was a few minutes every few days, only when he was certain he wouldn’t see anyone. He pushed down the brim of his hat, the turned collar of his jacket masking some of his more distinct features. He kept his head hung low, hands shoved into his pocket. If he kept to the list in his pocket, no one would pay him any attention. 

— 

“Andrés?” 

The faint whisper of his name greeted him the moment he opened the door, a paralyzing little shudder piercing his spine. In the quick scheme of things, he’d failed to consider the chance Martín would return home before he did. His lover was currently rolled into a ball on the sofa, head barely raised from the cushion to look at him. His eyes were hazy, skin red and blotchy. There was no telling how long ago he’d arrived home, but it was enough to pain the scene before him. He flinched with the first step Andrés took towards the sofa, and the front of his foot halted mid-step. 

“I wasn’t thinking when I left,” he explained, immediately. “I didn’t mean to worry you.” 

“I’m sure I overreacted,” he mumbled back, forcing himself to sit upright. 

His body still trembled, eyes fixated forward at a random point on the wall. While Martín’s hands ran down his thighs, determined to stop the emotional display, the tight squeeze crushing inside Andrés’ chest spoke to his guilt. One afternoon wasn’t enough to be held responsible for this. Yes, their argument was a catalyst, but coming back to an empty apartment was only part of the problem. As suspected, he’d failed to keep his promises. 

“I can’t imagine what you thought when I wasn’t here. I’m sorry,” he said, trying to take another step forward. Apologies were still foreign on his tongue, but becoming an established part of his vocabulary with his engineer. When Martín didn’t reply, he cautiously took one after the other until he made his way around the sofa. All of their progress was rolled away like the tide, further proof he’d not done enough. That was going to change. Grey monotony would never be enough to fix all he’d broken. Bright bursts of color brought by his actions would start with the surprise he’d planted, but first he needed to earn yet another chance. 

“I — wondered if you’d ever been here at all,” Martín confessed, choked by the tears caught in his throat. 

Andrés twitched, wishing to pull the man in his arms, run his fingers down the back of Martín’s head, and soothe away the panic clutching him. Uncertain he’d be allowed, he only lovingly reminded, “Estoy aquí, Martín.” 

“Do you want to be?” 

This time, the spasm of pain gripping him left the inside of his mouth tasting of silver. Old tendencies to argue back knocked against the back of his teeth, blistering on his tongue. He deserved the festering wound to pop, but it didn’t have to go untreated. With careful movements and the correct bandages, they had nothing but time to properly fix their relationship. 

“I failed to see we’d fallen into old routines,” he started, slowly lowering himself onto the worn cushion on the other side of the sofa, “you always devoted yourself to me. It was always like being wrapped up in the warmth of my own sun.” 

“You said I liked you too much.” 

“You always have,” Andrés agreed. “I never appreciated the affection you held for me for all it was worth. I’m not letting that happen anymore.” Curiously, Martín turned his head to look at him, and a small knot of pain undid itself with the small victory of looking into his sea-blue eyes. 

“Things don’t have to change.” 

“Yes, they do.” Andrés’ right hand reached out, grabbing hold of his arm. He froze to his spot, but Andrés refused to let him go easily. With a gentle tug, Martín slowly fell against his chest with a delicate whimper. His face found shelter in the curve of Andrés’ shoulder, eyelashes fluttering against the line of exposed skin his turtleneck didn’t cover. 

After a moment of comfortable silence, Andrés turned his head to plant his lips on top of Martín’s head. He guided one of his hands through soft, unruly locks of hair, fingertips grazing his scalp. Martín’s pleased hum worked to release the tension in his shoulders, a cherished moment of relaxation in the middle of their conversation. Andrés’ thin lips curled upward and he closed his eyes against the heartwarming sight. This is how it should have always been, and he vowed to make the effort to maintain it now.  
  
“Things don’t have to change if they are going to make you unhappy.” Martín’s small voice tickled the inside of his ear, before he pulled away to be able to look at him. He laced one of their hands together, his head turning just enough against Andrés’ palm to press a little kiss in the center of his hand. The heat of the touch sparked electricity down his veins, addictive and wondrous in away the touches of all his past lovers never had been before. A thousand moments between them would never make up for all the years lost, but Andrés knew he would chase each and every one.  
  
“I spent years pretending my feelings for you did not exist,” he mumbled, leaning in until their foreheads lightly touched. He could feel Martín’s nostril flair with each quiet inhale, his mild breaths falling above the curve of his upper lip, “I cannot change our past, but I will not keep making the same mistakes, mi amor.” 

His own breathing steadied as Martín’s did, the two of them finding solace in the embrace. They fell into rhythm together, and the tremors claiming Martín finally relinquished their hold. Breaking this close proximity was the last thing he wanted to do, serenity already started to weave them together. Nonetheless, words were a poor display for all the man meant. He’d weaponized them before, used them to twist the knife and manipulate each situation as he saw fit. Keeping Martín required action this time, and his surprise was primed and ready to deliver. Andrés’ hand flirted down the side of Martín’s cheek, inching down until he found his other hand. With both intertwined, he meticulously pulled his forehead away. His best adoring smile painted his face as his head nodded towards the door. “Come with me. I’d like to show you what I did with my day.”  
  
The pathway down to sea winded between tall buildings, already starting to be lit with outdoor lamps. Martín kept to his side as they walked, under the security of his arm draped around the younger man’s shoulders. His head lolled against Andrés’ shoulder occasionally, the picturesque view of two lovers lost in each other’s company. Any passerby they encountered wouldn’t linger their attention on them for long, too invasive to their private bubble. The evening was already improving, Martín’s fears vanquished once again. With exact timing, they would make it to the spot he prepared just before the sun started to dip behind the curve of jagged, rolling hills.  
  
The last yards leading to their destination required a short walk up one of the steep hills. The narrow trail required following one after the other, but before Martín could pull away, Andrés’ arm extended out behind him. Their hands stayed intertwined, his squeezing his lover’s one reassuringly. The sweet action rippled an incredulous chuckle from Martín, pleasantly taunting. His proof of actions to aid his words included even the smallest of gestures, knowing his man deserved the grandest variety. Lucky for both of them, Andrés was a master of courtship. Where most men had long surrendered the desire to cater to every aspect of dating, he had perfected the art established lifetimes ago.  
  
“Close your eyes,” he ordered, turning his head to reveal a playful, proud smirk.  
  
“I’ve seen what the view looks like from these hills, Andrés. It’s not my first time coming here,” Martín said, his tone high with the disobedient whine.  
  
Andrés stopped in his tracks, his free hand moving to cup the other man’s waist. The tight material Martín favored in his jeans worked to Andrés’ advantage, the bone of his hip easy to gloss over with the pad of his thumb. Challenge colored Martín’s eyes, but the right cuspid sinking into his bottom lip proved his advances were already working. His index finger caught on one of the belt loops, inching Martín forward. He turned his head from side to side, their noses bumping together. Whatever resolve his friend held weakened, his glance drawn to Andrés’ lips as he had intended. He tilted his head up just in time to only press a ghost of a kiss against Martín’s. The satisfying tremors he drew as the breath bobbling in the other man’s throat released, and the lighthearted disappointment in the way Martín’s shoulders dropped allowed for a peck against his temple. “Are you willing to listen to me now?”  
  
“Would you like to hear _si señor,_ or to see a proper military salute?” 

He felt the ankle wrap around his heel before he tripped forward, Martín’s arms waiting to catch him. He laughed, mirthful as his hands found purchase in the stubborn man’s hair. The toothy grin staring back teased the pride Martín must’ve felt, but the upper hand this evening would not willingly be surrendered. He pounced forward, the awkward angle of the kiss he stole knocking Martín back. They tumbled until his knees locked, arms secure around Andrés’ waist. In all the kisses they’d shared since their return, this was the most juvenile. Martín’s hands pressed against his back, as though uncertain where to place them. Andrés only kept his hold on his lover’s cheeks, as their wide smiles made teeth knock together. It was euphoric and innocent, joy coming in the place of past pains. They were changing tides tonight, at long last. 

His past lovers were marred with the need to find every flaw fatal, and only revel in their perfections. He always carved a way to run when the oasis cracked, allowing the first problem he wasn’t unwilling to struggle through to destroy what they shared. He moved on, stumbling blind still searching for something all consuming. Until this moment with Martín, he’d never realized just all the ways he misunderstood what he needed. 

Love wasn’t like the fiery reds and bright orange currently whipped across the sky, broken clouds completing a phenomenal image. It was never meant to be endless happiness, and easy compromises. Love, the unwavering devotion he craved, was calm like the sea in Palermo. Jagged waves and little ripples cane when the waters were disturbed, but patience allowed things to relax once again. It was warm and inviting on the best of days, but dark and cold when seasons change. Everything had a time and place; there would never be joy without pain. And this time, he was ready to wait each out, to appreciate what each could teach and help improve. 

“ _Por favor,”_ was all he said as he put one front in front of the other once again. This time, Martín followed to the top of the hill without any additional hesitance. 

Awaiting them on top the hill was a green blanket, spread across a flat patch of dead grass. The oval wicker picnic basket had a cotton blue ribbon wrapped around the base, waiting for them on the center of the spread. A bottle of wine poked out from the tilted lid, ready for the two glasses on the other end. “A little late in the year for a picnic, eh?” 

Andrés rolled his eyes, turning on his heel to open his arms wide as he bowed. “And have you in that grey sweater wasted on another evening spent at home?” He paused, lifting the back of Martín’s hand in supplication to his lips. “You must take me for a fool.” 

“I don’t need all of this,” he mumbled back. But they’d come too far now for him to allow Martín to shy away from the show of sentiment. He’d swept all his former lovers off their feet with romantics, and none of them deserved the attention half as much. 

Before his lover could back away, he took a seat on the blanket, tugging on Martín’s hand. “That is precisely why you do.” 

“We don’t have—”

“Yes, we do. Stop trying to ruin this by changing my mind, Martín. I know I’ve failed you in the past, but I intend to keep my promise.” 

Martín listened, taking a seat across from him on the blanket. His finger tapped the top of the basket, before Andrés’ hand swatted it away. “Where exactly did you get all of this anyway?” 

“As you know, I have a particular skill set. Years of experiences make it easy to walk through crowded or empty streets without drawing attention to myself.” 

“Are you telling me you _stole_ all of this? La puta madre, you’re a billionaire now!” His belly laugh made him fold at his waist, hands grasping his knees to keep from fully toppling over. 

“A _bored_ billionaire, cut off from his funds, who would never forget his roots,” Andrés reminded, taking a moment to appreciate Martín’s delight. One hand wrapped around the neck of the wine, while the other twisted the basket to access the stem of the glasses. “But this, I paid for. It only required walking around Palermo unnoticed.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” Martín teased, as he took the glass of cherry red wine offered to him. 

The spread of cheeses, smoked and cured meats, assorted crackers, and fruit were artistically placed on the dark charcuterie plate, and slid over the top of the empty basket. The winter sea breeze brought an early chill the closer it moved to sunset, but the evening of freedom with Martin was worth the cold. His maroon sweater provided enough warmth when aided by the alcohol, and in a few hours they could comfortably settle under the electric duvet. For now, he enjoyed Martín’s face illuminated by the last drops of sun shining behind him, shadows drawing patterns he committed to memory. The tranquil sky and the peaceful sea below were the perfect backdrop to the evening, just as he’d intended. 

He plucked one of the ripe grapes from the vine, turning it between two fingers. Without waiting for the blessing of permission, he pressed down on Martín’s shoulder to guide his head to his lap. Surprise drowned protest, leaving him with no choice but to comply. He traced his plump bottom lip with the tip of his finger, the piece of fruit waiting between his thumb and small finger to be popped into Martín’s mouth. When his surveying eyes caught on to Andrés’ unsaid plans, his lips parted to allow himself to be fed. 

Andrés maintained the lazy pattern, adopting a new intimacy he’d failed to utilize before. Between pieces, he pushed the hair from Martín’s forehead, smiling down at him. “Dionysus was linked to the grape harvest, and a successful season meant the most decadent of wines. But as the God of Seduction, the images of his head leaned back, being fed succulent fruits by beautiful maidens imply something else.” 

“Are you comparing yourself to a beautiful handmaiden?” 

“You act as though I don’t cut an imposing figure in the right dress,” he replied, snickering at Martín’s ceaseless need to crack a joke. 

“Well—”

He pressed the pad of his thumb against the man’s lips, highlighting his cupid’s bow with the touch. Anything else the man had to say was swallowed, the memory of the Paris heist quieted with it. Martín’s weight shifted against his leg, melting with the feather-like touches Andrés offered. The last grape dropped into his own mouth, refusing to move his finger from the new home it claimed. The puffed pout on Martín’s face nearly made him choke, amused. 

“You had the entire vine, should I not be allowed one?” 

“If I am your Dionysus, should you not live for my servitude?” 

Arrogant, confident Martín was a facet of his personality that had been tucked away since their reunion. Seeing its grand reappearance now bolstered Andrés’ belief the evening had gone exactly to plan. Taking comfort in the sight, he moved Martín’s head from his lap to lay in the opposing direction next to him. He scrunched his nose, rubbing it against his lover’s chin. 

The waves below were carelessly dribbling onto the sand, the distant sound of the tide the only noise in the stillness. This new closeness was already turning wheels inside his restless mind, but prompts and promises were filed away for another night. They had nothing but time for running away to the tropics, if Demir still had contact with Sergio. The thought nestled inside his head, waiting for another day. He wanted to savor each detail of this night, without the idea of change. Heavy eyelids started to fall, the tranquil harmonies of the sea and close proximity to Martín certain to rock him to sleep. Before, he had fantasies of the police removing his body from a Palawan beach. Now, if they came for him here he would mock their inability to ever have anything as miraculous as this. If they dragged him away, he’d sing Martín’s praises and wax poetic about the man he loved. 

“Andrés,” and for every melodious tune ever composed, nothing would ever make the flutter in his stomach or the yearning in his chest respond like his lover’s call. Every drop of his name off Martín’s tongue was like the slow drizzle of honey from a dipper, and he slotted his mouth between Martín’s lips ready to catch the sweet taste. 

“Yes?” He breathed. The seal of his lover’s blessed kiss was so close now, so demanding and gentle he was certain the thumping of his heart would crack a rib if he was asked for patience before the fall. 

Martín’s right hand only moved until it found the base of Andrés’ skull, locks of hair loosely threaded in the gaps between his fingers. Andrés sighed, enamored as his head was tilted and was granted when he desired. The smooth feeling coupled with the brushes of Martín’s breath, and the tart taste of cherries would forever be associated with this moment. This night in Palermo, forever immortalized just as that morning in Berlín. 

“Te amo.” 


End file.
